I listened for their yell of discovery with the tension of a slow striking bell. It did not come. Then—had the man gone mad? Van Volkenberg slackened his pace, fell into a walk, then stopped and turned back towards the mob. What was he going to do? Why did he not continue his cowardly flight? If he were going to escape, did he not know that every second was a year of his life? I saw him raise his finger and make the sign of the cross. Then he put his hands to his mouth like a trumpet and shouted:
“Ho! Do you seek me? Van Volkenberg?”
What followed I cannot tell. I can hardly bear even to think of it. He dashed spurs into his horse and fled towards New York. I heard a yell of joy from the savage mob. A sight of him was like a taste of blood. They followed out across the open ground. But, as might have been expected, he gained on them fast and they saw that they would lose him. With that they turned back. The house, at least, was at their mercy. But as they turned back, Van Volkenberg turned back also. He rode gallantly, and I could hear his powerful voice taunting them for cowards.
“Is it the leader of the Red Band you seek? Come on, you scum of Yorke. Here is a man. Come on, you dogs.”
They were after him again, pell-mell. It was then that I lifted up my voice and cried with a will: “God save the good patroon!”
I understood it all at last. Within the house was certain death to everyone. Yet it was he only whom they wanted. He had thus offered himself to lure them away from the house where his daughter was. He knew they were incensed against him. They cared not a snap of their fingers for the rest of his household except as they would do his bidding and fight against them. They were bent on his destruction and he knew it, so he had purposely made himself a bait to draw them away from the neighborhood. This was what his muttering meant when he dashed by me: “Miriam, I give you all.”
I set out with the rest. He rode ahead and the mob came after him. Suddenly I heard the crack of a musket. Lady Marmaduke’s men were getting to the front again. Then another and another. Still the old man rode bravely at the front, with the mob howling at his heels. At last he fell. Let us hope the bullet touched his heart and that he was dead before they reached him. I covered my eyes in horror. They pounced upon him like curs. Let me not relate the mutilation that followed. That was a bloody act. Its like for cruelty I have never seen before nor since.
And so he died, a hero. I had had great wrong at his hands; for all that I bowed my head and breathed a prayer for his soul. He had the great love that the Bible speaks of. He gave his life for another; and who am I to call him into judgment?
CHAPTER XXVIII
CONCLUSION
Let me pass briefly over the next six months. It is now midsummer and the city is at peace. Already the Red Band is a thing of the past and well-nigh forgotten. Jacques’ return with a message to the invaders was effective. We heard no more of the French fleet. The men of the Red Band, bereft of their leader, were incapable of a stand and were, for the most part, allowed to go free. Sir Evelin Marmaduke slowly grew strong and resumed his position in the affairs of the city. And Annetje Dorn became willing to pass the Kissing Bridge arm in arm with my little friend Pierre.